


Healing is a Round Ball

by Kimium



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Brief mention of self harm and eating disorder, Gender neutral pronouns for the Imposter, Multi, canon typical violence mentioned, post sdr2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 06:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13945206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimium/pseuds/Kimium
Summary: Post SDR2. Character snippets.Everyone is coping and healing in their own special ways. Sometimes it's slow, but at least it's moving somewhere.





	Healing is a Round Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I thought up the beginning part to this story a couple days ago, but decided writing just as Nagito has been done before by me many times and I haven't gotten to explore everyone else fully.
> 
> So that's what I did! Granted, it's snippets, but I managed to write everyone! I'm super happy with it! This was a fun exercise for me. I hope you all enjoy this.
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos and comments. It really makes my day and feedback always helps! If you wish to check my tumblr out it's [here](http://www.kimium.tumblr.com).

Every time Nagito changed his clothes, he always found himself staring at his stomach. His fingers would trace up and down, along his ribs, skirting over his hip bones, but never dipping into the center. It was merely dancing around, beating around the bush. Sometimes he’d spend minutes, or hours, staring at himself, afraid that if he looked away from the mirror or looked down the image would shift. Exhaling slowly, Nagito trailed up and down, like he was weaving rows, fingers tracing abstract patterns (always with his right hand, never his left. Nagito hated the feel of metal on his stomach. It was just another reminder, another blaring red light flashing the words “FAILURE” and “MISTAKE” over and over in his mind).

He was a failure, a mistake. Everything about him, from the moment he was born to this point in time (age was irrelevant to them, what with years missing from their minds). The universe had cursed him with luck (or gifted him, but every gift comes with a price) and then proceeded to take everything from him.

With shaky fingers Nagito pulled his hand away, breath caught in his throat. No… not all was taken. He had things now. A future, a bright, warm future. Swallowing Nagito held onto the thought, like a train ticket, and returned to touching his sides, moving inward, until he finally touched his stomach, right above his navel.

Here the skin was smooth, warm, unraised. There was no scar, no gaping hole where the spear had fallen. Nagito felt a tremor rip through his body and his arm jolted, his fingers flying off his stomach, arm secure at his side.

No hole. No scar. It hadn’t been real. It had all been inside his head.

(But, for a moment in his life, it had been real and he had died.)

Roughly exhaling, Nagito turned away from the mirror, exiting his bathroom, and got dressed for the day. It didn’t do one good to dwell on dreams. With a firm nod, Nagito turned his light off and left his cottage.

~

Mahiru took one look at her art wall, at the photos she had pinned up, and flopped on the bed. Her camera, something Souda had helped her fix up, sat on her desk. It was an old-style camera, with film and focusing, and certainly no screen to see her images and delete them if they turned out terrible. She had to change the film carefully each time and develop her own photos when she finished a reel. Sometimes she spent hours in the stuffy room, breathing in the chemicals and working in the poor light. Sometimes she didn’t want to develop the film and it would sit undeveloped for weeks.

But, every time she finished developing the film, good or bad photo, she would pin on her wall, just above her bed. Photo upon photo over lapped each other and there was barely any space left. Sometimes Mahiru considered going through the photos, getting rid of some, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her photos were a statement, her mind captured at that moment, in a particular mind set, negative or positive.

Smiling, Mahiru sat up and tugged on one of the photos pinned lower on the wall. It was a terrible photo, blurry. It had been a photo she had first taken after Souda and Hinata fitted her with her mechanical fingers. Mahiru remembered it well. How she tried to take a picture for the first time in months, and the result was this: a blurry, off focused image with half of her mechanical fingers hanging at the edges of the photo.

How pathetic, a small voice whispered in her mind. She wasn’t a photographer. She wasn’t good. She wouldn’t be nearly as good as her mother.

The sound of a photo ripping echoed in the room, cutting through her thoughts. Mahiru looked down at her hands, finding the remains of that photo scattered in her palms, on her bed. It was impossible to fix. Now, all that remained was the ripped pieces of a memory.

A memory she destroyed herself.

Mahiru quickly gathered the pieces of the photo and tossed them into the garbage. After all, what was one more lost memory in a sea of years?

~

Mikan counted on her fingers. She had to check up on Pekoyama and Owari, to make sure they weren’t over exerting themselves. She also had to check Kuzuryuu’s eye and Saionji’s leg. Then she had to clean up the hospital’s kitchen and bath. Then the laundry, then make the beds and…

A busy day to occupy an empty mind. It’s how Mikan liked it. Task piled upon task, work always set to maximum. When she sat down, had a moment of silence, that’s when her mind wandered, flitting to dark places. That’s when her arms ached or her fingers itched. That was when Mikan had urges, her mind screaming to make herself hurt, to be hurt, to be trampled on…

Something snapped. Mikan looked in her hands, at the pen she hadn’t realized she had picked. Up. The red ink smeared staining her skin, a bright red, a flat red. It didn’t gleam or glisten like blood. It didn’t smell like iron. It didn’t hurt. All it did was stain, make a mark.

This would wash off, with soap and water. Her skin would be clean and it wouldn’t hurt. There would be no need for bandages or antiseptic or the process of feeling skin mend and tighten.

Walking over to the sink, Mikan turned the water on and began to wash her hands, ignoring the small tingle of disappointment that she wasn’t hurting.

That she wasn’t bleeding.

~

Nekomaru’s lungs felt like they were going to burst, but he kept pushing herself, making his legs move just a bit faster, feeling the burn and protest in the muscle. It wasn’t fast enough. It was never fast enough.

He wasn’t fast enough.

The thought burned like a wild fire in his mind, consuming his being, like a phoenix dying. In a way, that was what he felt like. Dying. He was dying, too stagnant, too still. He had to move or he’d die.

Training was all he was, all he had. Training required his body in peak health so his athlete’s health could mirror his own. An athlete was only as good as their coach.

And he was a sorry excuse for a trainer.

Weak, weak, weak. Still a young boy in a hospital, waiting for the doctors to tell his parents what was wrong with him. Never told him to his face. Children couldn’t handle the truth. They weren’t strong enough.

Just like he was… is. Presently. Now. In this moment.

Nekomaru pushed himself just a bit harder, just a bit faster, before he collapsed on the sand, the warmth cushioning his fall rather poorly. His legs burned and his side ached. No doubt when he finally got up he’d have sand everywhere. It would be a hassle to clean, but Nekomaru didn’t care.

Rolling onto his back, he turned his head and looked towards the ocean, feeling a breeze pick up and wash over him. The heavy smell of salt and brine, the fluid rhythm of the waves was a balm. Nekomaru closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, breathed in slowly…

A rhythm. A pattern. Zen. A balanced state. That’s what he needed. He didn’t need to push himself in a frenzy for results.

A day at a time. Small steps at a time.

Even though, to him, steps felt like a snail’s pace.

~

Kazuichi was sweltering, even with the canopy shading him as he worked in Electric Ave. Setting his wrench down on the plastic table he had managed to rummage up, Kazuichi grabbed his water bottle. The water was warm, not the slightest bit cold, but it was wet and that was all he needed. Swallowing, Kazuichi set his water bottle down and began to work again.

The heat didn’t let up and he was still warm. The obvious answer to his problem was to roll his sleeves up, not wear a full jumpsuit, but Kazuichi didn’t want to see the thick, dark, swirling lines of ink up and down his arms. He didn’t want to see the inked-up tally marks counting his victims.

Sometimes Kazuichi considered removing them, getting the long and painful procedure over and done with. Naegi and Kirigiri had… resources… and it was a possibility. But, wasn’t that running away from his past? Was removing the marks denying them?

Though, a small voice asked, isn’t hiding them the same as running away?

Kazuichi tightened his grip, fingernails biting into his palms, before he took a deep breath, and returned to work.

(Sadly, he didn’t know the answer to that question.)

~

Hiyoko had many recordings of her performances. She had them all on her bookshelf, labelled by date, stacked neatly. Souda had kindly fixed a small TV for her and set it up in her cottage along with a DVD player. The quality was horrible, fuzzy, not doing the recordings justice, but it got the job done, so Hiyoko didn’t complain.

When the weather was crappy, or when she woke up lethargic, unable to motivate herself from her bed, Hiyoko would hastily dress (she could tie her obi now thank-you-very-much) and watch the same performances over and over again. It was always a bit jarring to watch herself move on screen, like she was watching a puppet perform, herself removed from the scene. A few of her performances were blacked from her memory and watching those distanced herself more and more from the girl performing on screen.

However, there was one recording on her shelf that wasn’t a dancing performance. It had been handed to her by Naegi and Kirigiri a few weeks after she had woken up. The disc didn’t have any label or writing on it. It was silver and chrome and blank.

They told her what was on it, advised her to watch it with someone (probably so she didn’t lose it). Hiyoko had numbly nodded and waited until they were gone before throwing the disc harshly on the bedside table.

She didn’t look at it until two weeks later when she was discharged. She didn’t watch it until three days after that. Hiyoko also hadn’t listened to Naegi and Kirigiri’s advice.

Perhaps, it had been a mistake. Hiyoko didn’t know. All she could remember was watching her throat hurt from screaming, her face stained with tears, and her leg broken at an impossible angle.

Hiyoko watched and didn’t feel a single connection to the girl on screen. And that scared her more than the video.

~

Gundham sat on the fence by the ranch, watching their chickens and roosters waddle around, searching for grain to eat. The cows were grazing and the pigs were rolling around on the other side of the chicken’s pen. Somewhere in the distance he heard a crow caw and saw the shadow fly over them.

Naegi and Kirigiri had really thought of everything they’d need, doing their best to supply them and support them. Gundham was grateful, though he wished they had more animals. A few horses, especially for Sonia who informed him that she missed horseback riding. Perhaps some dogs and cats too. Komaeda would enjoy having a dog, he’d probably benefit from it.

Well, they all would. After all, animals were scientifically proven to help ease stresses. Gundham made a stronger mental note to inquire at their next meeting.

In the distance he spotted the bulls, also grazing. They were majestic, long, bodies closer to rectangular in shape, beautiful red or black coats…

Gundham felt his hands shaking, spreading to his body. If he closed his eyes he could feel it, the weight and pressure of their bodies trampling over his, crushing him. He could feel his bones breaking and his organs squeezed against the splintered ends.

He gasped out, shaking the memory (or dream really, it hadn’t been real) away from his mind. A scuttle in his coat alerted him as his Four Dark Devas poked their heads out, tilting their silent gazes at him. Gundham let out a long breath, filling his lungs with air, and scooped them up gently, holding them in his hands.

“Thank you, my loyal and trustworthy friends.” He muttered, stroking one of them with his thumb, feeling the soft fur underneath.

~

Akane had once performed a gymnastics routine with only two days of prepping the routine. She had once raced across the school and won first place. She had climbed their school to the top, never stopped moving… Akane knew she had conquered many things. Akane could do this. She could conquer this too.

The plate sat innocently in front of her, the small meal Hanamura had prepared still steaming. It wasn’t anything too filling: rice, vegetables, a bit of meat. There was also some sort of iced drink. Akane slowly reached for her chopsticks, holding them with practiced hands. The food was ready, all she had to do was eat it.

Ignoring the lump in her stomach, Akane reached for something small, some broccoli, and picked it up by the fluffy top. Bringing it to her lips, Akane took a small bite.

Her mind wildly went off, like a fire alarm wailing. Akane felt like choking, but she held firm, chewing and swallowing. Her mind seized and Akane closed her eyes tightly, breathing deeply through her nose.

It was fine. This was fine. She didn’t feel like throwing up. In fact, it felt sort of good, like a cool wave of relief flooded her veins. Smiling to herself, Akane stared at her food. This, like all the things in her past, was something she was able to overcome.

~

The eyepatch made him look more badass.

Or so Fuyuhiko liked to tell himself. Instead when he saw himself in the mirror he saw a still small boy, one wearing a suit, like he was trying to imitate his father. The Kuzuryuu Family pin shone brightly on the lapel, only adding to the image.

The pin had belonged to his father. It was supposed to be passed down to him when he was ready to take over the Family. There was supposed to be a ceremony, his mother, Natsumi, his father, and the rest of the Family there to witness the exchange.

Too bad Fuyuhiko couldn’t remember it. Or, more accurately, couldn’t remember what actually happened. There weren’t any files on it, unlike many of their other lost memories. No one knew what happened. Or, more accurately, no one remembered what happened.

Shame it didn’t take a lot to imagine what had happened. Fuyuhiko sighed and dropped his hands from his suit jacket. Turning around sharply he exited his cottage only to find Peko standing there, waiting. A jolt ran through him and Fuyuhiko swiftly did a once over.

He could still see it, the swords sticking out of her body, he could feel the weight of her on him as he lay bleeding. Even in her dying moments she had protected him. It hurt him to remember and a small part of him wished he didn’t. The Neo World Program was supposed to be lost to them, but it didn’t work in a clean, clear cut way. Certain things still stuck to them all. Fuyuhiko wished Peko’s death had been scrubbed away too.

No such luck.

“Fuyuhiko.” Peko gently pulled him from his thoughts, “How was your sleep?”

 The response “better, if you had stayed with me” filled Fuyuhiko’s mouth before he slammed his jaw shut so tightly and quickly it hurt. Desire pooled deeply in his stomach and spread through his body like webbing from a spider.

No, it was too fast, too soon. He couldn’t tell her his thoughts, his wishes. What if she felt obligated to oblige him? What if she relapsed in her way of thinking? It had taken forever and a day just to get her to not use polite terms when addressing him. It was entirely possible she’d let him do what he wanted and hold no concern over her feelings. The thought made him sick.

“Fuyuhiko?” Peko’s voice filled his ears, “Are you feeling all right?”

“I…” Fuyuhiko focused, swallowing thickly, “I’m fine. Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“I see.” Peko mused before she gave a small smile, “You know… if you hold concerns you can always talk to me… as your…” She paused. “As your friend.” She finished.

The tightening in his stomach and mind dissipated. Fuyuhiko felt a bit lighter and his worries eased a fraction.

“Thank you, Peko.” He said before reaching out and lightly pushing her, “For being my friend.”

“Always.” She simply replied.

~

As Sonia filled her tub she sat on the edge and watched it fill. The water was clear and steam rose from it. It didn’t mutate or change into anything else. When her tub chimed and the water stopped, Sonia stared for a while longer, reaching out, skimming the edges with her fingertips. It was water on her hands, hot, steaming water for a bath.

She stood up carefully, mindful of her balance, and lifted one of her feet, dipping her toe slowly in. Her breath was baited as she tried to submerge her foot. Sonia got to her ankle, the water lapping at the bone innocently, when her mind disconnected.

Suddenly the water wasn’t water. It was blood, thick, coppery, sticky. It smelt of death, of decay, of cruelty. Sonia screamed and jumped back, her bloody foot smacking against the tiled floor, smearing a thin red line as she scrambled out of the bathroom, one bloodied foot, one clean foot.

Smacking harshly against the door’s frame for support, Sonia tumbled to the ground, her breathing laboured, her mind spinning.

No, no, no it wasn’t blood. There wasn’t blood in her tub. There weren’t dead corpses of young girls piled outside. No one had died. No throats slit, no blood to wade in. It was just water. It was just water…

Sonia forced the words through her mind over and over, until her breathing evened out, her pulse slowing down, not galloping.

Forcing herself to look over at the tub again, Sonia spent the next hour frozen in place, watching the steam rise and disappear from the water as it slowly cooled down. When the bath water was bone cold, wasted, Sonia pulled the drain and watched it swirl away. The water didn’t turn into blood again.

~

Ibuki hummed to herself as she sat by the beach on a thick log. Her feet were digging into the sand, warm and cozy. At her side was an acoustic guitar. In her hands was paper, sheet music. Biting her lip, Ibuki wrote a few more notes down, before staring at her work. Idly she began to hum the beat she had written out, smiling when it felt right. Now all she had to do was put words to it.

She brightened. What would she write? What would the song be about? The beach? The sun? Oh, perhaps she could make a song to play while they watched the stars. Though… someone would complain that it was an activity best done in silence… Ibuki twirled her pen and looked around. Maybe she’d write about the ocean…

Yeah, that was a good idea! She could write about the animals in the ocean, or swimming, or playing around, or getting caught in a storm, or swimming out until exhaustion. Or maybe she could write about going further and further out, swimming until the body gave out and slowly sunk to the bottom, air lost, water filling the lungs in a deliberate attempt to drown…

Ibuki stood up harshly, nearly knocking her guitar over. Her skin felt cold and her fingers numb. Her songs… like a hypnotic suggestion… a lull, a deathly lullaby…

Crumbling the paper up into a ball Ibuki stared at it. Just holding it felt like she was holding a time bomb. Her hand burned, the fire licking up her fingers…

Without much thought, Ibuki walked over to the ocean, feeling the water lap at her feet. Kneeling she felt the water soak into her stockings and placed the paper into the water. She hated to feel like she was littering, but as she watched the paper slowly soak up the water, bob and fall into mushy wet pieces, Ibuki couldn’t help but feel like this was the only way to properly dispose of her dark thoughts.

Movies always showed demonic things being destroyed by fire. Perhaps this song had to be destroyed by water.

~

Teruteru looked at the food on the counter and sighed. What he wouldn’t give for a little bit of help, even if it was just chopping things. Having to feed fourteen other people would put a toll on anyone. Adding in the consistent nature of this task and Teruteru was seriously considering rallying for a break.

Maybe he could talk to Hinata about it… make Hinata do some of the cooking. There was a talent stuffed inside his brain for that too. It would be nice, to just sleep in, not cook, not worry…

But then… would he become useless? Would they realize he wasn’t good for anything else? Teruteru paused, feeling his stomach twist. No… it wasn’t like that. It would never be like that.

Shaking his head violently, Teruteru reached for the cutting board and vegetables for their dinner. Setting it to the side, he turned for the knife, but slipped and nicked his finger. As the blood welled up, Teruteru sighed. At this rate he’d never get anything done.

Going to the sink, he washed his finger, examining the cut. It was shallow, merely a scratch. He still needed a band-aid, but within the day it would be fine. Going to the first aid kit they kept in the kitchen, Teruteru bandaged his finger and went to work. He wasn’t going to stop. He could keep working and giving himself to the others, like a dish waiting to be consumed.

A dish.

Teruteru paused and shut his eyes tightly. He could still feel it, the thickness of the batter, the flour in his mouth and nose. The burning, the agony of being cooked…

His mind reeled and pulled at a small memory at the back of his mind. A table, a course set out, the putrid smell of rotting flesh…

Slamming his hand against the counter, Teruteru violently shook his head and looked over at the ingredients on the counter. It was mainly vegetables. He hadn’t taken the meat out yet.

And perhaps… he’d keep it that way for this dinner.

~

Peko sometimes caught herself from calling Fuyuhiko by his last name. Sometimes she caught herself offering to do everything for him. Sometimes she had to stop herself from distancing herself from his presence.

His request had been both a cursing and a blessing. It had been what she had wanted for so many years that Peko had forgotten how long she had wished for it. Yet, now that she got what she had wanted, it felt awkward to wield, like a new shoe yet to become comfortable to wear. Instead of elegantly stepping into the role she had longed for, she was stumbling like a bow legged fawn learning to walk.

It was disgraceful. Peko had always been nimble, quick. It was why she excelled at kendo, at physical activities. It was why she enjoyed athletics and training. But this wasn’t an exercise in physical prowess. This was an exercise in mental prowess.

And it hurt her to be failing so hard despite her best efforts.

She couldn’t help but feel like she had stumbled onto her face when she greeted Fuyuhiko at his cottage door in the morning. Wasn’t that something a servant would do? Greet their master in the morning, wait for them outside…

But… it was also something friends did. Peko tried to hold onto that thought as she opened her mouth to speak, to greet Fuyuhiko. His silence as a response felt louder than any words uttered. She had messed up… somehow… it ached to acknowledge her failure, not because it was a failure, but because she didn’t know how to fix it…

No… she had this. Peko redoubled her efforts and tried to inquire again. This time, Fuyuhiko’s gaze snapped to attention and he turned to her responding.

“I…” Fuyuhiko’s voice was soft, but loud, “I’m fine. Sorry. I was just thinking.”

Was that a good thinking or a bad thinking? Peko tried to differentiate, but her mind was swirling too loudly, too mixed and muddled. Perhaps he too was thinking. Perhaps Fuyuhiko was just as confused and worried as she was...

“I see.” Peko decided it was an appropriate answer before steeling herself for the last bit. “You know… if you hold concerns you can always talk to me… as your…” She paused. “As your friend.”

There. She had finished her thoughts. Peko waited, air lost for a brief moment before Fuyuhiko answered.

“Thank you, Peko.” He said before reaching out and lightly pushing her, “For being my friend.”

The touch sent a jolt down her spine. Peko hoped her cheeks weren’t pink.

“Always.” She whispered carefully, less everything be given away.

~

Byakuya… or whatever name they wished to call themself didn’t like having mirrors in their cottage. It had been a bit of a pain to remove the one in the bathroom, but the comfort and relief that flooded through their veins was worth it. There was however, one single mirror, a hand held one that could fit into a dresser drawer.

Some would call it running away, not being able to face their true selves. They could see why others would think that. After all, they had spent their entire live putting on other people’s identities, faking and faking until there was nothing left.

But it was the opposite.

They weren’t trying to be someone else, perfecting their look until it was just right. Now, their look through the days would change. Sometimes they would change multiple times through a single day. Sometimes they would stick to one look for a long while. Regardless, every time, before they left the cottage, they would pause and look at the dresser, where the mirror was. The option to check their reflection was always available. Sometimes they took it, other times they didn’t.

The option, the freedom of choice, it made them feel like, for the first time in a while, that they could breathe normally.

~

Hajime touched his forehead, feeling the raised skin, the scars from the experiments. He could trace the scars in his sleep, knowing the rise and fall of each. He knew where his other scars were. Sometimes he remembered where and how he got them (one of them was from him clawing at a needle for days at end). Other times it was a blurry mess.

Often not remembering made his tether to the world snap and he was floating in a sea of talents. Kirigiri once asked him how it worked and Hajime had a difficult time explaining. It was a fluid thing, the talents in his brain. Sometimes it was like many puddles on the street, each distinct and easy to point out. Sometimes it was a river, always flowing. It could also be a well from where he would draw things up.

But usually it was a sea, a still sea, so smooth it was like a mirror. Often Hajime would dream of wandering, his steps causing ripples as he walked. That dream didn’t bother him, unlike some of the other ones he had.

Prices to pay in the end. Nightmares were a trade for living. Living meant surviving and surviving meant heading towards a future.

No matter how dark and obscure that future felt.

Pulling away from the mirror, Hajime took one last look at himself, taking in the scars, the single red eye, the other hazel eye, and his shirt.

Things wouldn’t happen if he just stood around. Exiting he shut the door and turned, only to nearly bump into Komaeda. Where Komaeda came from, Hajime wasn’t about to inquire, not when he had to regain his balance and prevent himself from toppling Komaeda over. He still stumbled into him though.

“Wow, if you wanted to leap into my arms I can think of easier ways to do so.” Komaeda commented.

“Shut it.” Hajime sighed, “You were too close.”

“I was?” Komaeda asked, “You’ve never complained about that before.”

Hajime flushed a little but let the topic drop. Komaeda could go at it for hours, the teasing, the flirting.

“Right.” Hajime cut that line off, “Let’s go to breakfast together.” He changed the subject, offering his arm to Komaeda.

To his surprise (and a bit of delight) Komaeda flushed but took his arm.

“Onward.” Komaeda recovered smoothly. “Towards a new day.”

Someone had been talking with Tanaka. Hajime held that thought and nodded anyways.

“Onwards.” He repeated.

~

_Somewhere, perhaps a virtual space, or maybe in the afterlife (who knew if that was even a thing that existed) a girl sat, her short pink hair curled over her ears. Her knees were to her chest. She couldn’t see them, in fact she couldn’t see much, but a warmth fluttered in her heart. She could feel it, people close to her, healing, but becoming happy._

_She smiled._

**Author's Note:**

> Camera: based off a camera my mother used for most of my childhood until I was about twelve or thirteen. She still claims to this day it took the best pictures.
> 
> Koizumi: I head canon she chopped some fingers off while in Despair so she couldn't hold a camera properly.
> 
> Mikan: I don't think she herself inflicted the self harm, but I do think she put herself in situations where she would get hurt (kind of like the difference between stabbing yourself with scissors VS. egging someone to do it for you).
> 
> Nidai: Canonly stated he was a sickly child, I sort of took this concept and extrapolated to what I think he was like in Despair.
> 
> Kazuichi's tattoos: So, in the past I've mentioned I think he has tattoos from his stint in Despair, but I decided to add in that some of the tattoos were tally marks to his victims because... I felt like it...
> 
> Saionji: My head canon to her in Despair is that she got one of her legs crushed (like in that one short story in Godchild) so she couldn't properly dance.
> 
> Bulls: Okay, so I know VERY LITTLE about what people look for in competitive cow/bull selling. BUT what I have learnt (we can all thank some people at my work) is a desirable bull's core body is sort of rectangular.
> 
> Dog: Nagito canonly had a dog growing up.
> 
> Neo World Program: I like to think some parts of the Program stuck in their minds, regardless of being told the shut down would erase everything (after all, a memory of dying/ a loved one dying tends to stick).
> 
> Sonia: I base my Despair Sonia off of Elizabeth Bathory who killed young girls and bathed in their blood believing it would keep her young.
> 
> Teruteru: I've seen many headcanons to him in Despair, but I decided to keep some of my thoughts towards it ambiguous.
> 
> Scars: I believe Hajime has scars on his forehead from the Kamukura Project.
> 
> Talents: I head canon that Hajime can use the talents given to him, but they're hard to access (and give him a headache if he uses them for too long).
> 
> Komaeda/Hinata: I'm sorry I'm weak af.


End file.
